


The End Is Where We Start From

by Hay_Bails



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Johnlock, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:50:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1407208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hay_Bails/pseuds/Hay_Bails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock exhaled. He continued, softly enough that John had to lean in to hear his next words. </p>
<p>"Oliver reminds me of myself."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

           

            The child wrapped his arms tighter around the consulting detective’s torso, the movement grating against the older mans’ wounds. The detective winced, but managed not to cry out from the pain of it. “Almost there,” he panted, keeping one firm arm wrapped about the child’s waist.

            Sherlock Holmes, with one final burst of energy, managed to drag himself and the child up the last few steps into the shelter of 221B Baker Street.

            “John-“ he ground out, flashes of darkness playing out in his vision. “John, take… take Oliver.”

             A weight was lifted from his hip. He could only imagine that John had done as he said. His vision was more or less gone now.

            “Thank you,” he breathed, and allowed himself the luxury of passing out.

  

* * *

 

 

            There had been an explosion.

            Sherlock’s eyes flew open. He sat up quickly, and immediately regretted it. A cry of pain escaped his lips, and he hung his head and closed his eyes once more, drawing in quick, shallow breaths. The fire in his back and shoulders smoldered. 

            Christ, but his back hurt.

            There had been an explosion. Yes.

            He didn’t want to open his eyes again just yet. He obviously wasn’t in any immediate danger, if he wasn’t dead already. And he was sitting on something soft. Soft was good. There was no reason to fear that he would be injured further.

            Gingerly, with eyes still closed, he began to assess his wounds. His back and shoulders seemed to have taken the brunt of the damage. What he could reach, he examined with gentle brushes of his fingertips. Much of his torso appeared to have been bandaged, and expertly at that.

            Good. He was probably in John’s care, then.

            He winced, sitting up a bit further.

            “John?” he croaked. He hadn't sounded this bad since before he stopped regularly smoking, he reflected. 

            A moment passed. There was a twinge of fear. Where was John?

            And then- “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

            Sherlock relaxed, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He opened his eyes.

            “I’ve been better.”

            John nodded, face serious. His voice was steel. 

            “You almost died, Sherlock.”

            “It _is_ in the job description.”

            John sighed, and took the few necessary steps toward the bed to close the gap between them. He hesitated before placing a gentle hand on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock looked up in surprise at the touch, but did not say anything. He leaned into John’s hand, savoring the cool fingers on his skin.

            “Did I save them? All of them?” he asked in a sudden rush of breath.

            John sighed. His gaze softened. 

            “You did your best, Sherlock.”

            The words were like iron bars clanging all around him. _You did your best._

            There had been fifty children trapped in that orphanage when the bomb started ticking. Sherlock shuddered involuntarily.

            “How many?” he asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. He needed statistics. He needed numbers. 

            John hesitated.

            “How _many_ , John?”

            “Twenty-three dead.”

            The silence was palpable.

            He had only saved twenty-seven of those fifty children. Twenty-seven survivors. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, body rigid.

            “You did, though,” John said suddenly. “You did do your best. And you saved more than Lestrade could have on his own.” Sherlock felt John’s thumb trace a small circle on his cheek. He let out a shuddering breath.

            “What about Oliver?” he asked, eager to divert his attention from the stern reality of those lost souls.

            “Oliver is fine,” John said. “Upstairs, asleep in my bed.”

            Sherlock hummed a low note.

            “Good. That’s… good.”

            “Why did you bring him here?” John asked. 

            An angry glint flashed in Sherlock’s eyes for the first time.

            “Because we’ll take better care of him than those idiots at the Yard.”

            John looked taken aback.

            “Surely you don’t intend to keep him?”

            Sherlock sighed. “I… I don’t know. I just knew… he needed someone to watch over him. For now.”

            John opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it. He considered for a few moments. Sherlock, he had come to learn, did actually care. He cared possibly more than anyone else John knew. Fingers brushed fondly over Sherlock’s cheek one last time before John pulled his hand away.

            “He can stay as long as he needs to,” he decided, nodding to Sherlock.

            “Of course he can. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go, now that the horrid orphanage is blown to bits.” Sherlock’s voice was devoid of the emotion that should have accompanied that statement.

            John sighed.

            “Look. Sherlock. It wasn’t your fault. There was really nothing more you could have done.”

            Sherlock hung his head, unresponsive. Every bone of his body seemed to disagree with John’s assessment.

            “I mean it," the doctor continued.

            Sherlock made a noncommittal sound.

            “I know you don’t believe me. But you have to look at this objectively.”

            “I look at _everything_ objectively, John. It’s my job.”

            “Right. All I know is there’s a child sleeping safely upstairs who would otherwise be dead right now. You did that, Sherlock.”

            There was a wretched silence, for just a moment.

            “Are you saying I should be proud?” Sherlock looked up, a dreadful expression on his face. “That I should be happy about playing god back there? That I chose the right child to save from that explosion?”

            “No. I’m saying that you saved _a_ child.” John moved to sit on the bed next to Sherlock. His shoulder brushed Sherlock’s. Sherlock winced. “Sorry, sorry,” John said, adjusting to give his injured flatmate some space. Once they were settled, he spoke once more. “Have you ever heard the story of the man and the starfish?”

            Sherlock frowned. “I don’t listen to _stories,_ ” he said, a bit more harshly than was strictly necessary.

            John continued, unperturbed. “As I recall, it runs something like this. A man was walking down the beach, picking up the starfish that the waves had washed onto the shore and throwing them back into the water. Another man came up and asked why he was saving the few starfish he could, when there were literally hundreds of other starfish that he couldn’t possibly save. It was fairly impossible to make any noticeable difference in the sheer number of beached starfish. He asked why the man didn’t just give up. And the man replied that it made a difference for every one starfish he _did_ save.” John paused. “Am I helping at all?”

            Sherlock sighed. He stared at the far wall for a moment before seeming to come to a decision. With a huff of breath, he scooted himself to the edge of the bed. He winced. Then, with a groan, he stood up rather quickly. John immediately leapt up to join him.

            “Hey! Hey. Where do you think you’re going?”

            “Upstairs.”

            “Really, Sherlock,” John said. “You think you’re going to get very far in your state?”

            Sherlock, who had not yet managed to take even one step forward, silently conceded the point.

            “So what is it? You want… you want to check on him?”

            “Yes.”

            John was impressed by the determination in the detective’s eyes.

            “Would you like me to just bring him down here?”

            Sherlock looked shocked for a split second, as if that idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. John imagined that was a rare occurrence. He smirked.

            “Um,” Sherlock said eloquently.

            “You lay back down, and I’ll go fetch Oliver.” John’s tone, though soft, brooked no argument.

            Sherlock held his gaze for a moment, as if to prove something by standing up, before sitting heavily upon the mattress once more. He nodded, and John left the room.

            Footsteps reverberated around the flat for a few moments, making their way up the stairs. The low tones of John’s voice could be heard echoing comfortingly back down into Sherlock’s bedroom. Another moment passed, and the same steps made their way back down.

            Sherlock frowned. There was only one set of footsteps. Which meant, obviously, that John had deemed Oliver too injured to be moved, or too exhausted, or-

            Or there was only one set of footsteps to be heard between the two of them.

            The door to Sherlock’s bedroom creaked open, and John entered, carrying a half-asleep child upon his hip.

            Sherlock visibly relaxed, the tension in his shoulders and neck dissipating.

            “Oliver,” he whispered quietly. Reverently.

            “He’s fine, Sherlock.”

            The child buried himself deeper in John’s jumper, fingers curling into the fabric of it.

            Sherlock’s eyes took him in greedily. Oliver was small, even for a six-year-old. His straight black hair fell across his forehead haphazardly. A cowlick graced the back of his head. John had disposed of his grubby clothing from the night before, and Oliver now sported a much-too-large jumper that John himself rarely wore. His face had been scrubbed clean of soot.

            He yawned, and looked up at Sherlock.

            “Mister John is taking care of me,” he said sleepily. "Is Mister John taking care of you, too?”

            Sherlock caught his breath, and nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, John does take care of me.”

            “That’s good. Can I go sit with Sherlock, Mister John?”

            John gave a small smile, and set the child down gently. He watched as the child plopped himself on the bed beside Sherlock.

            “Are you hurt, Sherlock?”

            “I… no, Oliver. I’m fine,” he replied, giving the child a reassuring smile that he didn’t quite feel.

            “You’re covered in plasters,” Oliver said doubtfully. He placed an experimental hand upon Sherlock’s chest, which was indeed wrapped full around in a bandage.

            “Ah, yes. Don’t worry about me, Oliver. I will heal.”

            Oliver looked at him skeptically. “Mmkay,” he said. “Sh’lock?”

            “Yes?”

            “What happened to all my friends?”

            Sherlock drew in a breath. “I… they…” He shook his head slightly.

            John noticed his unease, and quickly moved to place his hand on Sherlock’s forearm. “Some of them are at Scotland Yard, Oliver,” he said, coming to the rescue. “They’re being watched over by Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

            Sherlock shot him a thankful look.

            Oliver seemed satisfied with this. “Wow. Detective Inspector,” he said, tasting the words. “He sounds important.” There was a beat. “Is Sherlock a Detective Inspector?”

            John and Sherlock shared a wry grin. “Well… Sherlock is something called a Consulting Detective.”

            “Cor,” whispered Oliver quietly. “What’s he do, then?”

            John chuckled. “You want to explain, Sherlock?”

            Sherlock sat up a little straighter. “I put the police in their place when they are wrong, as they so often are.”

            John rolled his eyes. “The police come to him for advice when they need help solving a case.”

            Oliver looked back and forth between them, drawing his own conclusions.

            “So he catches the bad guys?” he asked slowly.

            “Yes,” John said simply. “Does a very good job too, I might add.”

            Sherlock rolled his own eyes in turn.

            Oliver nodded, satisfied. He grabbed a fistful of blanket in his hand, playing idly with it. “So why am I here and not with my friends?”

            “We-“

            “Wanted to make sure you were safe,” Sherlock cut in, eyes blazing.

            “Yes, that,” John said, glaring at Sherlock for his interruption.

            “You want to keep me safe?”

            Sherlock nodded.

            Abruptly, a small pair of arms found themselves wrapped around the consulting detective’s middle. Sherlock winced, his skin screaming with pain, but when John moved to pull the child from him, he held a hand up.

            “It’s fine,” Sherlock said, reassuring both John and the child. “It’s all -“ he gingerly moved the child’s hands from his back to his sides “- fine.” Hesitantly, he wrapped his own arms around the child’s tiny shoulders.

            Oliver sighed contentedly, closing his eyes and resting his head upon Sherlock’s chest.

            Sherlock held the child delicately, more gently than John would have thought possible. A minute or so passed in silence. Oliver’s breathing evened out as he drifted into sleep. Sherlock was incredibly still while holding Oliver. He watched the child, observing every breath. John's lips turned up in the tiniest of smiles at the sight. 

            Then, without warning, a sob escaped Sherlock’s body, then two, then three.

            “Whoa! Hey! Easy, Sherlock, easy,” John murmured, startled by his flatmate’s sudden tears. He moved his hand comfortingly up and down Sherlock’s arm, too afraid to chance touching his shoulders.

            Sherlock choked on another sob, his hand moving to caress the child’s hair softly.

            John looked at him worriedly.

            “You sh-should take Oliver up-stairs,” Sherlock hiccoughed in a whisper.

            John nodded once, and as lightly as he could, took the child from Sherlock. “I’ll be right back.”

            “Y-yes, John,” Sherlock said. He curled around himself as best he could, holding in more sobs. He listened as the footsteps padded upstairs. He listened as the footsteps padded back downstairs.

            John moved back into Sherlock’s bedroom. He took in the state of his bedraggled flatmate from the doorway. Sherlock had pulled his legs in close to his chest, his forehead resting on his left knee. The younger man took in a sip of air, calmer now than he was before.

            “I’m sorry, John,” he breathed.

            “No reason to be sorry,” John replied. “He’s an awfully heavy sleeper,” he remarked. He moved to the bed and sat once more beside his friend. “Mind telling me what that was all about?”

            Sherlock drew in another ragged breath and looked up at John. His eyes were red. “It was nothing, John.”

            John gave him a look.

            “Truly, John,” Sherlock said. He had managed to pull himself together, more or less. “There is a mechanism built in to the human body. One does not cry out of sadness or sentimentality. One only cries when one is overwhelmed. I was merely… overwhelmed.”

            “By what?” Sherlock was silent. “Oh, come on, Mister I’m-a-genius-and-know-everything. What brought this all on?”

            Sherlock looked dully at John.

            “The fact that twenty-three deaths could have been prevented isn’t enough of a catalyst for you?”

            “You know, I hate to sound cruel, but… no. Not for you, Sherlock Holmes. You were fine when we had _that_ particular discussion.”

            “Fine,” Sherlock muttered. “You want the real reason why I care? The real reason why this particular child is taking up residence at 221B Baker Street instead of the shelter the Yard has provided?” Sherlock exhaled. He continued, softly enough that John had to lean in to hear his next words.

            “Oliver reminds me of myself.”


	2. Chapter 2

            _Oliver reminds me of myself._

            John stared at Sherlock for a lot longer than was strictly necessary.

            Sherlock, who John could hardly believe was ever a child at all, reminded of himself by the sleeping six-year-old upstairs. How on Earth was that even possible?

            The detective sniffled, burying his face back in his knees. Despite John's initial assessment, he had to admit that the figure in front of him did, at this moment, look for all the world like a lanky, overgrown little boy. 

            “Hey,” John said softly, not really sure where to begin. “Do you want to elaborate on that for me?”

            “Not particularly,” the figure on the bed mumbled.

            John reached up and ran a hand through his hair before deciding to press onward.

            “What is it about him that reminds you of yourself?”

            "Are you my therapist?" Sherlock asked acerbically. 

            John was rather glad the detective couldn't see the face he was making. He gave Sherlock another thirty seconds, allowing the sarcasm to drain away.

            Sherlock eventually let out a breath, not bothering to go to the effort of lifting his head. “Mainly circumstances,” he began. “However, there are certain other traits he possesses.”

            John nodded. Now they were getting somewhere. 

            “Don’t tell me he keeps human body parts to experiment on too,” John joked gently, attempting to lighten the atmosphere of the room.

            “No,” said Sherlock, not catching the humor – or perhaps just ignoring it. “He’s highly intelligent. I suspect mild to moderate autism. Perhaps Asperger’s.”

            “What, and you know this because you are autistic?”

            John got no response.

            “Wait, you’re actually autistic?”

            Sherlock, had he been facing John, would have given him a withering look.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “I saw no real reason as to why it would be important.”

            John looked frustrated. However, Sherlock, who was still buried deep in himself, couldn’t see this. John curled his fingers inward, and counted to ten. Trust the world's only consulting detective to downplay a mental illness. 

            “Sherlock,” he began, “your well-being is extremely important.”

            His flatmate mumbled something that might have been “No, it isn’t.”

            “Really? You _really_ think that?”

            A definite answer. “Yes.”

            John deflated. He moved over to the bed and sat beside his friend once more. From up close, John could see the toll this latest job had taken on him. Sherlock was as skinny as ever, the bandages making him look even thinner. His skin was several shades paler than healthy, and even his hair seemed limp and dejected.

            John’s frustration evaporated. This man needed taking care of.

            “You matter, Sherlock,” John said. He placed a hand on the injured man’s arm. “You do. Truly. To a lot of people.”

            “Not any more than those children.”

            There was a pause.

            “Your worth as a human being isn’t judged on a sliding scale, you know.”

            “Perhaps not, but you imply that it is still judged, regardless of the ‘scale.’” He curled more tightly into his little ball.

            “I’m not going to argue rhetoric with you.”

            The detective made a noise.

            John, after a moment’s hesitation, moved his hand down to cover Sherlock’s own. Sherlock finally looked up, a strange expression on his face.

            “You matter. All right?”

            “John…”

            “You matter to me, and to Mrs. Hudson, and to Lestrade, and to Mycroft.” Sherlock scoffed halfheartedly. John continued, “And you matter to the little boy sleeping upstairs.”

            “Oliver has learned to distance himself from the world,” the detective said, a hint of sour on his tongue.

            “You really think that, Sherlock?”

            “That’s the second time you’ve asked me that within the span of five minutes. You might consider adding other questions to your repertoire.”

            “You might consider not being an arse,” John muttered. “Answer me honestly.”

            Sherlock’s eyes were unreadable. “His actions show that he has successfully distanced himself from caregiving figures in his life. Back at the orphanage, he grew stiff and unresponsive when the matron took his hand to lead him to supper. He did not play with the other children at playtime, and he most certainly did not interact with any of the prospective parents.”

            “But he interacted with you.”

            “I do not consider myself to be a prospective parent.”

            “And yet you’re letting him sleep in your flat.”

            “Where a child sleeps is irrelevant.”

            “You’re right. Where a child is _comfortable,_ that seems to be the trick. Isn’t it?”

            Sherlock stared at John. “You think he’s comfortable here?”

            “He fell asleep on you. I’d say that counts as comfortable.”

            The detective let his legs fall over the edge of the bed, coming to a more open position.

            “You care about him,” John said. It wasn’t a question.

            “Nonsense. I’ve only known him two weeks. There’s no possibility of-“

            “Hush.” John absentmindedly adjusted one of Sherlock’s bandages. “I’ve seen how you look at him. Like a firefly has just landed on your arm, and you might be able to catch it, if you can only move slowly enough.”

            Sherlock looked mildly offended, and opened his mouth to say so. John, however, cut him off once more.

            “Sherlock, you’ve already caught him. He’s been wrapped around your finger all week.”

            Sherlock’s mouth twitched, then closed. His infinite aquamarine eyes bored into John’s, something resembling hope flickering inside.

            “You really think that, John?”

            John smirked. “You might consider adding other questions to your repertoire.”

            The younger man took a breath, closing his eyes.

            “I do. Want to keep him,” he said, quietly enough that John had to lean in to catch the end of his sentence. 

            “Then keep him,” John said simply.


	3. Chapter 3

_One week earlier_

_Oliver sat in the tree in the corner of the orphanage courtyard, feet dangling from the highest branch. He watched intently, though the regimen of the day rarely changed. The other children played, or laughed, or cried, depending on who got visitors, and who didn’t._

_Oliver seldom had visitors. He didn’t mind, though. Not anymore._

_He had used to mind, of course, back when the orphanage was fresh and his mother’s death still weighed on him like ten bricks in his belly. That, however, had been years ago._

_Oliver was six now. He knew how old he was. He counted._

_His birthday had passed quietly a few weeks ago. No one had brought him a gift, or come to visit._

_Oliver didn’t mind. Oliver had his tree, and a gift of his own._

_The other children paid little mind to Oliver, but he liked it that way. From his vantage point in the tree, he could see everyone – the matron, the children, the excited same-sex couples, the heterosexual couples with the bittersweet hope in their eyes._

_He had learned the word ‘heterosexual’ a few days past, and was fairly sure he knew what it meant. He knew that the heterosexual couples were generally more subdued, and looked at you like they liked you, but wanted something else._

_The same-sex couples were much more bubbly and excited – it was hateful, Oliver had decided. No one had any right to be so happy around someone who had lost their parents._

_Still, they came, and they went, and Oliver watched, each day much like the days that had come before._

_Of course, that all stopped when he came._

_He was tall, and pale, and a bit mysterious, with the collar of his long black coat flipped up about his neck to protect him from the autumn chill. Oliver immediately knew that he was different from the other prospective parents. He didn’t smile – didn’t even try really._

_Well, in truth, he did smile, but it was a grotesque thing, as if he was only pretending. He ignored the matron, not even bothering to listen to her suggestions – it was Cristoff this week; Cristoff was a good child, a very good boy indeed, she would say. He brushed her off._

_The children flocked about him in the courtyard, clamoring to get a better look at this new man. Wanting him to see them. Wanting him to take them home._

_Oliver saw the truth of it, though, and the truth of it was that this man was not looking for a child to take home. This man was looking for… something else, though Oliver could not discern what._

_The man looked around the courtyard furtively, while Oliver looked at him, both parties searching so intently that a jolt ran through Oliver when their eyes suddenly met. The strange man held his gaze for a few moments before walking purposefully toward him. He stood at the bottom of Oliver’s tree, the matron walking quickly to catch up with him._

_“Oh, this one isn’t- he’s not-“ the matron said, flustered, as she caught up to him. He put a hand up to silence her. Oliver smirked._

_“What’s your name?” the man asked Oliver, more gently than he would have expected._

_“Oliver, mister,” he said, watching the man curiously. It had been some time since anyone had noticed him._

_“Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions Oliver?”_

_Oliver was startled. Was this man actually interested in adopting him?_

_“Um… sure,” he said, before swinging deftly out of his tree. He landed lightly before the man and the matron, the latter of whom looked down at him disapprovingly._

_From the ground, the stranger was much taller than he had seemed from the tree. Oliver bent his neck back slightly to get a good look at him. This turned out, however, to be unnecessary, as the man crouched down to kneel in front of him, meeting him on his level._

_“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said the man, not breaking eye contact. “And I need your help.”_

* * *

 

             “Good morning, Oliver,” John said brightly. Sunlight filtered in softly through the kitchen window, casting hazy yellow lines across the tabletop. Oliver took a hesitant step into the room, rubbing at his eyelids.

            “Mister John?” he asked groggily. “Where’s Sherlock?”

            “Ah, he’s still resting. He was…” John thought for a moment. This was a kid. You couldn’t really be truthful with kids, especially when the truth was so… painful. “He was really tired.”

            Oliver nodded. “But you’re taking care of him, right?”

            “Of course. Now, how about a spot of breakfast?”

            “Yeah.” Oliver sat at the table, dangling his legs off the side of the wooden chair. “Do you have coffee?” he asked suddenly.

            “Aren’t you a little young for coffee?” John replied, startled.

            “Nah, I’m six.”

            John nodded slowly. He was beginning to see what Sherlock had meant about the two of them being similar.

            “We don’t have any coffee, I’m afraid. Would you like some tea? I’m making some for myself anyway.”

            Oliver made a face. “Is it bitter?”

            John chuckled. “I could put a spot of sugar in it. But if you don’t like bitter, you probably wouldn’t enjoy coffee.”

            “Might as well try it though, yeah?”

            John turned to the counter and placed bags into two mugs. He rolled his eyes to himself. The kettle was already boiling, so he poured it out evenly among the two mugs, taking a spoon and mashing the teabags around a bit.

            When he was finished, he dug through the cabinet, found the sugar, and spooned a little into one cup, which he gave to the boy. “What would you like to eat? Toast? Eggs? Haven’t got any beans, but I could probably scrounge some from the landlady if you like.”

            “Mrs. Hudson?”

            “Eh?” John asked, startled. “Erm, yeah. Who told you that?”

            “No one,” Oliver said. “I heard you say her name when you were talking to Sherlock last night. You said Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft. Since that was the only lady’s name, I guessed that was probably who you meant.” Oliver looked down at his knees. “Sherlock doesn’t seem to have a lot of friends.”

            “Oh,” John said. “Um.”

            “But it’s not a bad thing!” Oliver looked up again, rushing to cover his tracks. “I mean. I don’t have a lot of friends either. So it’s all right.”

            “I see,” John said.

            Oliver shook his head vigorously. “See, this is why no one wants me,” he moaned quietly. He set his mug down on the table, untouched. “I say stuff they think is mean. I’m not being mean. I’m just saying what I saw.”

            John was silent for a long moment. He pulled out the chair across from the boy and sat in it.

            “Oliver,” he began. “Do you have… observations like this very often?”

            Oliver nodded, looking uncomfortable. “But I don’t mean to.”

            “Mm,” John mused. “I think I understand now.”

            “Understand what?” Sherlock’s voice rang through the kitchen, low and ominous.

            “Sherlock!” Oliver squeaked. He scooted out of his chair and ran to the detective. “Are you okay?”

            “You should be in bed,” John fretted. He joined Oliver at his side.

            “I’m fine.” Sherlock waved both of them away, walking into the kitchen with a small but noticeable limp. “Drink your tea.”

            “But you hurt your back,” Oliver said. “And you’re walking funny.”

            Sherlock looked at him with an unreadable expression. “I will be fine, Oliver.” He sat at the table. “Has John made you breakfast?”

            “I made tea,” John said. “Working on toast. Want?”

            Sherlock shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

            John glanced at him sympathetically. “All right.” He moved back to the counter, grabbing a piece of bread and stuffing it into the toaster. “I’ll have one for you in just a second, Oliver.”

            The boy’s eyes were locked intently on Sherlock. “I’m not hungry either,” he said decisively.

            John sighed. “You need to eat, Oliver.”

            “Sherlock doesn’t need to eat so neither do I.”

            “Sherlock, tell him.”

            The detective watched the proceedings with mild disinterest. “I don’t see why he needs to eat the toast,” he decided after a moment.

            “Sherlock!”

            “What?”

            The two men locked eyes.

            “He’s a kid! He needs to eat!” John argued. “I don’t care if you miss a meal or two, but you can’t just let a kid skip breakfast.”

            “I skip breakfast all the time and I’m doing fine,” Sherlock countered.

            John scoffed. “Right. Oliver, eat this toast.” The toast popped out of the machine and the doctor set it onto a plate. He handed it to the boy.

            “Best do as he says,” Sherlock confided in a stage whisper. “Don’t want John to get into a mood.”

            John fumed silently. Oliver giggled but pretended not to. Sherlock, triumphant as always, sat regally back in his chair – and immediately regretted it, as his ravaged collarbones brushed against the wood. He made a face.

            “Christ,” John said, scurrying to his side. “You okay?” He placed a hand on his arm. The toast, it seemed, had been forgotten.

            “Fine,” Sherlock hissed, waving him off. He sat up with immaculate posture, careful to keep his back a good distance from the chair.

            “You sure?” the doctor murmured.

            “ _Yes_ , John,” the detective huffed.

            John studied him for a long moment, taking in his haggard face and sunken eyes. He looked ready to pick a fight, but held himself back, knowing that the kid would be watching their every move. “All right,” he said after a long pause. “Is there anything you want to do today, Oliver?”

            Sherlock glanced up. “Lestrade will want a statement from him.”

            “Shit. I mean, um. Shoot. Um.”

            “It’s okay, I’ve heard people say ‘shit’ before,” Oliver said mildly, grasping the mug of tea in both hands. “Lestrade is the detective inspector, right?”

            “Um, yes,” John said. “He’ll want to know what you saw yesterday. Is that all right?”

            Oliver mulled it over. “Yeah, I guess that’s all right.” A thought crossed his mind. “Wait, is he gonna take me away to another orphanage? Because I won’t,” he shook his head vigorously, placing the mug down on the table a little too hard. “I won’t go. I won’t.”

            “He won’t.” Sherlock’s voice was decisive. “I won’t let him.”

            “I won’t,” Oliver said again, a little quieter.

            “I promise I won’t let him.” The detective’s eyes were locked on the boy. John was startled. He hadn’t seen Sherlock look that way at anybody, except maybe him. And what did _that_ say? Jesus. He decided to think about that later.

            “Do you want to stay here, Oliver?” John asked softly, holding his own mug in his hands.

            Oliver sniffed. He nodded tentatively.

            “You can stay here as long as you like.”

            The boy looked at Sherlock. “Really?”

            Sherlock was silent for a long second. “Yes,” he finally said.

            “Can I stay here forever?”

            The detective took in a painful breath and exhaled. “You really want that?”

            Oliver said nothing, eyes wide and frightened. The detective considered him for what felt like ages before finally speaking.

            “Be careful what you wish for.” With that, Sherlock stood and shuffled out of the room. His companions heard the bedroom door creak closed a few seconds after.

            “What I think he’s trying to say is yes,” John offered.


End file.
